


it’s always darkest before dawn

by Ford_Ye_Fiji



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, It’s not like a lot of the relationship, Kinda, Kinda dark???, Mostly just Sheridan's thoughts, Suicidal Thoughts, but it’s there - Freeform, didnt want to clog up the gen tag for my loves, don’t know what else to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ford_Ye_Fiji/pseuds/Ford_Ye_Fiji
Summary: He’s not dead.He’s not alive either.-Sheridan can have some eldritch horror. As a treat.
Relationships: Delenn/John Sheridan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 13





	it’s always darkest before dawn

Sometimes when he looked into the mirror he could see it. 

The rot festering under his skin. 

He could feel the creatures inside putting him back together piece by piece even as he crumbled apart around them. 

He was dying, every day, every hour, every minute. With each turn of the hand, each tick of each tock, his body was desperately trying to break itself down- to return to the natural order of things, even as the invaders forced him back together. He was decaying organs, decomposing flesh, and cracked bones forced to move forward under a guise- a manufactured lie of pulsing life and hot blood. 

He is dead. He is, he is, he is. Or he was. But now he isn’t. He isn’t dead any longer. He isn’t alive either. He’s something else. He’s something stretched too thin between, an abomination, a horror. Sometimes he wakes in the night and his shaking fingers can’t feel his pulse. Sometimes he forgets to breathe. When he bleeds, it’s slow and sluggish, as if his body has forgotten how it should work. His heart beats too rarely now and he is always cold- so cold, frigid fingers stiff with rigor mortis, the warmth of life drained out of him. 

He is a walking corpse. A creature- a _thing_ that shouldn’t exist, unnatural and terrible to behold. He is a dead decaying thing with his fleeing soul caught and shoved back into it, only connected by a single thread so thin it might snap, tied to a festering cage of muscle and bone and sinew. 

He doesn’t belong here anymore, in the land of the living. 

He doesn’t belong here. 

His time had ended and somehow, he still continued on. 

Sometimes, in the dark, he looks into the mirror and he can see it. He can see the rot burning under his skin, eating away at him, the sweet release of death calling to him only to be prevented each time at the very last second. An endless _tortuous_ cycle of rebirth as he lived on and on and on- except he didn’t live, no, he merely _existed_ . Whatever this was, it wasn’t _living_. It was prolonging. He was being strung along, second by second, until his final end. 

He was a creature brought back from the grave. 

~~_He had died._ ~~

Sometimes, he thinks, he never should have been brought back. 

~~_He should have been left there._ ~~

Sometimes the man in the mirror looks back at him, a graying corpse, sightless and rotten. Sometimes he wishes that were him. 

He flexes his or not his hands- at least, not his anymore, and wishes and wishes and _wishes_. His skin is too tight, his body too heavy, and his heart does not beat in his chest. He feels it or rather the _lack_ of it and he doesn’t breathe- he hasn’t breathed in so long. He hasn’t breathed in years. His throat is dry, his heart withered away, his bones dust. There is a bubble expanding in his chest, he can feel it, where will it stop, where will it end? When can he rest? Is this it? Is this the end? Will this half-life, this half-death, this twilight farce finally let his soul fly free? 

He looks in the mirror, a corpse looking back, and does not breathe. 

“John?”

The bubble in his lungs pops. 

He sucks in a breath, one, two, and the soft hand on his shoulder brings warmth to the coldness within. He turns, catching sight of warm worried eyes and long dark hair. He forces a smile, placing a hand over hers, “Delenn. What are you doing up?” 

She, Delenn, smiles. It doesn’t reach her bright _bright_ eyes. Clearly worried, she asks, voice thick with concern and sleep, “I could say the same about you. Are you alright?” 

John’s, that’s who he is, smile softens into something genuine- something sweet, and he can feel his heart beat in his chest, he feels almost alive at her touch, “I’m fine. Just needed some time to think.” 

Delenn leaned her head on his shoulder, arm encircling his waist, “That is a dangerous thing to do alone at this hour.” 

John leans his head on hers, against the softness of her hair, and he revels in the warmth of her as he pulls her closer, “It’s a good thing I’m not alone then.” 

She hums happily, sleepily. 

John presses a kiss to her forehead. 

In the mirror, a dead man breathes a breath that is not his own.

John blinks, and a man who has been given a great gift looks back. 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is here, please talk to me about Babylon 5: https://ford-ye-fiji.tumblr.com/
> 
> Don’t forget to review! ^-^


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